#sub twst

His reason no longer flows as it once did. His body shows no hesitation. His senses are dense and confused.

He does not understand what is happening, and the lack of control over the situation frightens him just as much as it fascinates him. A polished upbringing and oppressive restrictions, though they surrounded him his entire life, now seem distant and insufficient to stop him. Whether that is good or bad, he does not know.

The mixture of sensations is dreadful, shifting in imprecise waves. The feeling of shame is slowly dissolved by others even more overwhelming, replaced by delight—but also by the fear of accepting this change as part of his nature.

The dorm leader is not to blame. Certainly not. Because if his routine had remained monotonous, inflexible, and full of rules, there would be no worries.

The problem is that (Name) is a creature scarcely human. They may share the same appearance and thoughts, but Riddle is certain there is little of that supposed fragile humanity. If it were otherwise, his mind would be sound instead of hypnotized.

Where magic is lacking, something sinful takes its place and dominates. It tears apart sensitivity and fosters a promiscuous desire, strong enough to be considered a drug. And the redhead fears he is addicted.

You are a perverse existence. And your instincts act only under the command of that perversity.

Rosehearts notices this in the way (Name)’s tongue moistens the skin of his stomach, trailing upward to reach his ribs, sucking a darker freckle along the way, threatening to reach his chest.

The trail of saliva makes his skin glisten, along with sweat and a vivid crimson flush. There is a clash of temperatures, confusing him. The tongue traces him softly, yet pulls such absurd sounds from him. And the saliva, turning cold from the air conditioning, contrasts with his body, which feels on the verge of combustion.

As if that were not enough, wherever (Name)’s hands roam—squeezing, caressing, consuming—an even fiercer flame arises. Riddle loses awareness of everything around him, leaving only you, reducing him to this mess. Though he has no doubt he will lose his mind if you do not stop massaging the sides of his thighs so gently.

Seven, he cannot even believe he spread his legs so willingly. The mere thought tightens something in his groin.

Devastating. The boy whimpers, yet does not even try to pull away. His fingers clutch the sheets with such force, and his feet do the same, sinking into the mattress.

And yet—could it be the way you trace his freckles? He has never seen anyone adore such small, nearly translucent marks that scatter across him in such abundance.

Some people hate having freckles; others cherish them as one of their most beautiful traits. Riddle never took a stance—he did not care, had no time to, and simply accepted them as part of his appearance.

Until (Name) began to touch them, tracing over each tiny spot with a ghostly touch, as if afraid they would disappear if handled too roughly. Forming heart-shaped patterns, admiring the way they spread across his slender body, more abundant on his shoulders than his calves.

Until (Name) began to kiss them, lingering in slow affection so each one received the same amount of care. Lips drag across his skin, sending shivers to such obscene places. The redhead rolls his eyes at the softness, the quiet smacks, the eager tongue—always restraining itself, and failing, from devouring him whole.

And so, Rosehearts begins to feel beautiful—praiseworthy, even. Like an abstract painting, worthy of love through the attentive perspective of a devoted artist, so passionate they find inspiration in the smallest details.

But there are moments when he ceases to embody this muse and instead becomes a dirty secret—one he refuses to reveal.

Do you do this on purpose? Or simply out of a desperate desire to erase the distance, joining bodies in heat and thirst? The impression, however, seems innocent, and Riddle fears he is misinterpreting it—that, in the end, he is the promiscuous mind behind everything.

Because he cannot restrain himself when pressed into the bed. Sensitive, lying face down, with (Name) above him, pushing him into the mattress.

His poor ears, so used to reprimands, are greeted by new words filled with precious meaning. It sounds like honey, like opera, like prayer—and the boy desperately longs for the praise to continue in that low, muffled tone.

(Name) says, rubbing their cheek against his freckled back and falling in love with the pattern, that they will paint fine, beautiful lines. They will connect each spot and form constellations, shining like stars upon his skin.

Riddle should handle it well, savoring the poetic license and being its target. But heavens—the timbre of that voice, the words so carefully woven, all with the sole purpose of making him feel special. He gets lost in this domestic tenderness, reflecting on how profane it is to see it with malice.

The warm breath accompanying those words and the fingers playing with the unruly hairs at the nape of his neck, combined with everything else driving him delirious, only send more shocks through him. Like electricity, striking his nerves and fueling his arousal.

He is grateful that (Name) does not even imagine his glans—soft, peach-shaped—leaking thick drops of pre-cum. Growing hard and overwhelmed simply from being loved sincerely.

And truly, there are moments when the emotion is too much. Rosehearts is sensitive, a virgin, and nervous with any bold or romantic touch. He nearly cried during your first kiss—and he cries every time the overstimulation becomes too much.

It is so embarrassing! The infamous Riddle Rosehearts, dorm leader of Heartslabyul, representative of the Queen of Hearts, strict devotee to rules, babbling nonsense while sobbing. Who would expect such a low state from him?!

Whenever he feels his eyes welling up, about to reveal the intense storm of emotions stimulating him, he hides his face in his arms and bites his lower lip. As much as he can, the redhead suppresses the needy sounds and childish expression—furrowed brows and a pouting lower lip. He does not want (Name) to see him in such a vulnerable state, so far from the composed, powerful image he strives for.

The boy cries a lot—the kind that starts and takes time to stop, leaving wet trails along his plump, flushed cheeks. It is humiliating, to say the least, how immature he seems.

At least, that is Riddle’s perspective. Because (Name) thinks very differently.

His tearful face is simply enchanting. It tests their self-control, makes them want to bend him over the nearest surface and make him feel so good he starts crying out of happiness.

Their boyfriend already looks like a beautiful Victorian doll, but those long lashes, wet and heavy with endless tears, give him such a gentle charm. Not that of something fragile and helpless, but of someone who feels deeply and makes every emotion seem beautiful and complex.

You love his swollen, trembling red lips, his voice breaking into loud sobs, his hands struggling against you to hide his shame, and his small, sniffling nose.

It is delirium, temptation, and motivation. (Name) cannot resist the charm—and does not even want to try. Their lips grow wet as they kiss his warm cheeks, moving up to lick away the tears that bless their tongue with a salty taste, leaving soft pecks on his fluttering eyelids.

And because the crying comes from pure happiness, it only makes things worse. Far from his ideals and utterly absurd—but the redhead loves receiving such careful attention, as if he needed to be comforted. That explains why he keeps tugging at (Name)’s hair, guiding them to give him more and more.

Yet Riddle keeps crying. You have more work to do. The kisses never end.

“You have a hungry mouth,” he dares to think such impure thoughts. But if (Name) keeps trying to take every inch of his small body, it is not untrue.

Rosehearts once held the shallow belief that he would grow bigger. The reflection in the mirror, however, proves otherwise. His gym uniform, bought in larger sizes, only fuels mockery.

He is not athletic, he did not grow taller, and his appearance is delicate. A recipe for disaster—and further encouragement for perversion.

The boy’s chest can hardly be called a chest at all. With barely any definition and freckles scattered around, there is nothing particularly worthy of attention.

The problem is that (Name) would build a cult around that poor, unremarkable chest, as if it were the most adorable thing in the world.

You cannot look away when his nipples stiffen from the cold, peeking beneath a slightly transparent white button-up shirt—leaving little to the imagination. Nor can you stop salivating at the thought of the taste of his warm, fragrant skin. Strangely enough, roses and sweat make a perfect combination when it comes to the redhead.

His areolas are small, sensitive circles tinted in a peachy pink that deepens toward the tips. Said tips are so flat and thin, as if shy to reveal their full potential.

Because, heavens, Riddle’s chest has plenty of potential. It may seem simple, though to your eyes, it is the same as glimpsing a lady’s ankle in Victorian England.

Every time he unbuttons his shirt, it is torture. Exposing a neck usually covered, with well-defined lines and an Adam’s apple barely forming—you could paint it in countless shades of hickeys, bringing color to his porcelain pallor. Lower still, reaching the collarbone, the bones stand out beneath thin skin extending to the shoulders, adding to his doll-like appearance. And when the final buttons are undone, unaware of the hungry gazes staining his pure existence, (Name) would love to sink their teeth into those soft nipples.

And if the redhead notices, he will try to cover himself again. Try to mutter scolding words about his lover’s lust. Try to pretend he does not enjoy being pushed onto the bed, with (Name)’s lips stealing the air from his lungs as they begin to kiss the outline of his areolas.

The skin there is thinner, more sensitive, suffering under firm suction. It looks strange—a desperate pull where the nipple blends into the rest of his chest, the tip of a tongue daring to brush against untouched places just to make Rosehearts moan.

Riddle grows more incoherent by the second. His hands waver between pulling closer or pushing away, unable to obey a mind corrupted by pleasure and self-condemnation.

No biology book ever taught him that male chests could be so susceptible to ecstasy. No one wrote about how they could be stimulated and cherished in such a way that would leave him feeling helpless—and feminine.

How many biological rules have been broken? Did those rules even exist? Should there not be a rule that (Name) must let him climax while his chest is being sucked?

“You have a hungry mouth,” he insists on the thought.

“Use it wisely,” he doubts that is what he truly wants.

The sensation of teeth tormenting one of the buds, rubbing it against the other in unbearable friction, sends a wicked rush of dopamine through his veins and up to his head—his eyes rolling back, his mouth open as he cries out and whimpers. The tongue, sometimes joining in out of an obsessive need to touch him, takes advantage of that trap between teeth to toy with the swollen nub in slow, dragging motions.

In the brief moments when (Name) lets go to breathe—because his lover always forgets to breathe when they are together—the warm air hits, making his nipple stiffen again. The stimulation feels like a delicious numbness, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing against his sea island cotton underwear.

Such refined fabric wasted by his premature release. How disgraceful.

Even apart, Riddle can still feel the memory of that mouth—the warm, erotic trap refusing to let him go, bringing tears to his waterline. A nervous need blooms within him, his newly discovered clinginess urging (Name) to return and take the other bud, neglected and jealous.

You must be fair. So of course, without resistance, the other nipple is claimed.

The redhead feels it being pulled, sucked, drained under (Name)’s ministrations. In response, he can only dig his nails into your back, scratching harsh, vivid red lines into your skin.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, there is nothing simple or unremarkable left. They could be described as something out of a pornstar—if Riddle even knew such things existed.

They shine in a bruised color, completely ruined and throbbing. No longer flat, now swollen into firm peaks. The peach tone replaced by a vivid red, bordering on indecent. Perhaps it is the bite marks, the blooming purple bruises, the saliva highlighting everything further.

And depending on (Name)’s satisfaction, his nipples suffer under curious fingers ready to pinch.

Such bold actions. So wicked. The dorm leader should punish you for driving him to such degradation.

Ah—and he does. Though it backfires.

Really, who is unhinged enough to get aroused by a signature spell? (Apparently, both of you.)

Rosehearts never considered other uses for his spell. It was the peak of his pride as a mage—efficient, functioning exactly as needed.

It existed only to control rebels and their many forms of disorder, preventing the collapse of his harmonious rules.

Yet those functions do not apply to (Name). Instead of repelling your indiscipline, it seems to draw it closer and closer.

Until there is no distance between your bodies.

When the redhead realizes, he is already panting desperately. One hand tangled in your hair with little care, the other gripping the space between collar and lock.

The sound of metal clinking mixes with obscene noises, and Riddle finds himself forced to wrap his legs around your head, trying to crush your skull with his slender thighs.

His self-control is a distant memory. Controlling how tightly he grips, scratches, pulls—it all feels impossible. Lost in ecstasy, he can only dig deeper, cry louder. And when his hand slips from the collar, he does not hesitate before pulling again, even harder.

The sudden force makes (Name) choke—though perhaps the boy’s cock deep in their throat was already doing that. You salivate, see your lover’s hand reddened from gripping so tightly, and cannot help but look at him with adoration.

The taste of his skin is a mix of poorly spread lotion and sweat—a warm, sinful ambrosia that reduces you to addiction.

Looking up, he seems like the embodiment of omniscient, libidinous power. Like a deity, he does not need to speak to keep you on your knees, your tongue dragging along his length, lingering in slow movements, tracing faint veins or a daring freckle near his neatly trimmed, flushed pubis.

Or your lips abandoning the shaft only to suck the head harder, leaving it swollen, flushed, dripping more pre-cum as your hand massages his soft, freckled balls.

Rosehearts is reduced to something inconsolable. Cutting moans with sobs, arching his back into a beautiful curve, hips offering themselves to you, clumsily seeking friction he cannot achieve alone.

You must hold his waist, guide his thrusts, let him rub against the roof of your mouth; you must hold his hand, feel him squeeze as the tension in his core threatens to snap; you must massage his calves, strained from the pressure of his knees against your head, his toes curling and kicking the air.

He always had a strong voice—commanding, meant to be obeyed. Deep, authoritative, intimidating.

But the sounds he makes now? Seven—there is nothing eloquent about them. They are sharp, tearful, utterly unlike his composed speech. He begs for things he is ashamed of—more kisses, the feel of your palm—yet they escape him anyway, raw and strained, scratching his throat enough that he will need lemon tea for days.

The redhead hates this side of himself, trying his hardest to remain logical and authoritative. It is almost dreadful how vocal he sounds, echoing through the four walls like a mocking reminder of his promiscuous state.

Rosehearts feels like scolding you, reprimanding you for making him stutter and gasp so disgracefully! Even though he has perfectly rehearsed the speech in his mind, his tongue feels numb and his vocal cords seem addicted to that single sound. He cannot utter anything proper before another moan is torn from him, his fingers roughly tugging at your hair.

Everything feels like jelly—dense, without resistance. Each of his senses is heightened to an extreme: trembling touch, blurred vision, the lingering taste of (Name)’s gum, the scent of floral perfume mixed with sex, and his cursed hearing filtering nothing but the wet sounds of your tongue moving against him.

He swears he finds it indecent, improper, disgusting. He swears that, at first, he tried to stop you—rambling about hygiene and manners, struggling futilely to lift his hips from your face, feeling your breath against him while trying to cover himself with flushed hands.

(Name) simply agreed. “Alright, dear, no problem.” No insistence, not even a pout of disappointment. And, contradictorily, that frustrated him in such an offensive, repulsive way that he looked down at you—at those eyes watching him with patience and love—with a mix of resentment and surprise.

What had he become? Why did he want you to take back every word?

They stayed like that for a long moment, staring at each other, Riddle making no move to get off your face, nor to stop kneeling, his thighs poised to close around your head.

When you smiled at him—an obvious provocation, challenging him to truly pull away—Riddle understood two things: how much he hated your wicked attitude, and more importantly, how much he hated the power it had over him.

He did not take a stand, but resisted little when he felt your hands wrapping around his hips, massaging the bone and sliding lower. The pressure on his knees, already aching from holding his weight, slowly eased, stirring a conflicting feeling somewhere between dread and anticipation.

The sensation of a breath against such a sensitive place makes him flinch, a terrifying electricity running through his veins. The redhead bites his lower lip, stifling a desperate whimper that threatens to escape and place him in an even more compromising position.

He glares at (Name), perfectly at ease between his slender thighs, as if there were no better place to be. Being himself, even while feeling your nose brushing him, your lips smiling softly against him, and a hand stroking his leg in light caresses, Riddle cannot stop worrying—about being too heavy, doing something wrong, not being good enough.

But when he feels your wet tongue, gently teasing him—bold, unbelieving, almost absurd, yet patient as it urges him to grow used to it—his countless doubts suddenly shrink into the overwhelming task of enduring this unbearable sensation. His focus narrows to the sudden stimulation, the sticky warmth of saliva, and the cruel shivers that climb from his toes to the tips of his red hair, striking him like sparks against his aching need.

Rosehearts feels your lips, full and insistent, trailing hungry kisses, never satisfied. The suction, alternating with careless licks, creates muffled, wet sounds against his flushed skin, which only looks more abused with each rougher grip.

Sweat drips down, mixing with the haze that leaves him dazed and indecent, using what little breath he has left to moan incoherently. He tries to cover his mouth, pressing his face into his palm, digging his fingers in so he does not dare let those sounds escape—to the open air, or worse, to (Name)’s attentive ears. It is cruel, leaving marks on his soft cheeks, but he only wishes to spare himself the humiliation, even as he secretly melts under the heat pooling between his legs.

But his lover shows no mercy. Taking his wrist with deceptive gentleness—so unlike the relentless rhythm of their movements—you pull his hand away. One hand keeps him from silencing himself, fingers threading through his as he squeezes back when the tension inside him threatens to burst; the other guides his hips, teaching him how to move, slow and clumsy at first, yet allowing you to savor the way he learns, the way his body yields, the way Riddle falls apart.

Great Seven… Queen of Hearts… how had he allowed himself to fall into such disorder and indulgence?!

Rosehearts tries to understand these mysteries of life—especially how the one who made him arch his back, cry, scream, and fall apart could still be so gentle with him.

Afterward, his tyrannical mind is drowned in a sluggish haze, dulling his ability to think.

He dislikes the idea of dependency, even more the thought of vulnerability. And yet, when (Name) returns with a tray of his favorite snacks, water in his finest cup, and a damp cloth to clean him, he cannot help but feel that perhaps the situation is not so unfavorable.

Sometimes he stays lying in bed, comfortably sinking into piles of soft pillows, forcing you to take care of him. Sometimes, out of stubborn pride, he sits up—trembling, visibly exhausted—and insists on helping.

But regardless, it always ends the same way: the infamous Riddle Rosehearts resting against your chest. His breathing steadies, the soreness fades into a pleasant numbness, and your fingers playing with the ends of his red hair help quiet his lingering unrest.

He will, without a doubt, scold you—complain about the indecency, about the positions you forced him into, about your overwhelming desire. And all (Name) can do is admire him, cheeks still flushed, delivering such a long lecture while unconsciously leaning into your touch, curling closer against you.

And no matter how much he sighs and insists he is utterly exasperated, he would never dare fall asleep without giving you one last set of kisses. Different from those shared before—yet carrying the same passion. Soft, sweet, enough to bring a small smile to his swollen, cherry-colored lips.

(Name) is, without a doubt, a perverse existence. But even if Riddle remains a fanatic of rules and order, it does not mean there is not a small, equally perverse part within him.

After all, love is a force that manifests in many ways—strange, beautiful, and unexpected.

Riddle Rosehearts

Leona Kingscholar

Azul Ashengrotto

Kalim Al-Asim

Vil Schoenheit

Idia Shroud

Malleus Draconia

leona kingscholar

🫀 he always wants to touch you, for you to touch him, just to feel your skin against his. lions are very clingy, after all.

🫀 he likes to have you on top of him, covering as much of him as possible. put your hands on his chest, on his arms while you slowly grind down on him, his hands aimlessly wandering around your body.

🫀 if you’re feeling particularly mean, cuff his wrists to the bed. he’ll hate it, but it’ll be quick to get him desperate and begging to touch you.

azul ashengrotto

🫀 BODY WORSHIP AND LOTS OF IT. both for him and for you. it’s stressful to look after both the dorm and the mostro lounge, so he needs some way to destress, doesn’t he?

🫀 after a bit of convincing, he’d agreed to keep in his merform a few times. he’ll be embarrassed, but you’ll prove to him that he looks good, that he feels good in any way you can.

🫀

kalim al-asim

🫀 he’s a very enthusiastic sub. anything you ask, he’ll do. you need a massage? no problem! you wanna try something new? of course! you need a face to sit on? he’s right here!

🫀 he loves light touches. pet his hair, trace your fingers on his skin, maybe even enough to tickle him. the tickling can hurt a little after a while, but his giggling is contagious and seeing you smile is worth it all.

🫀 aftercare is exceptionally important for him. not because he particularly needs to be taken care of, but because he awaits cuddling eagerly.

vil schoenheit

🫀 he doesn’t sub often, but when he does he loves to be pampered and doted on. pleasure doms are his absolute favorite.

🫀 he always wears the best lingerie he can find just for you—and he doesn’t certainly doesn’t mind if it’s torn in the process.

🫀 i think he’s very confident as a sub. he still loves to tease and egg you on. he isn’t bratty in a disobedient sense, but in a “surely you can do it better/harder than that” sense.

idia shroud

🫀 he can vary from day-to-day: sometimes he’s bratty, sometimes he’s needy, either way he’ll be whining the whole time.

🫀 make up some rules and games for him! keep a star sticker board for rewards. maybe you can hook him up to a vibrator and have him color in a coloring book, and he earns a punishment if he colors outside the lines.

🫀 roleplaying! he loves roleplay, whether it be through cosplaying, making up your own characters/roles, or even just coming up with a new dynamic to try out.

malleus draconia

🫀 he’s very needy and will worship everything about you. you are beautiful, charming, elegant regardless of how you carry yourself, even your flaws are adored.

🫀 very much a service sub, your pleasure is his own. he’s able to cum just from tasting you, seeing you satisfied is enough to pacify him.